Thunderstorm

The exercise was to move a character from one physical place to another, and include two specific items. Here it is:

Thunderstorm

Crumpled. Yesterday’s news. Aging whore who hides

varicose veins under support hose. Crack of thunder,

flash, then sheets of lightning break the sky, release

wind-blown waves of water to chase each other down

the street. He checks the time: 9:15; picks up the paper

shield against the storm, umbrella for his bowler hat.

He steps into the street to hail a cab. Ozone replaces

coffee smells. The paper drips its veins of ink.

He tosses it into a bin, tilts his hat so rivulets

of water trace its rim, run down the center of his back.

His eyes burn with rain. He cannot see the taxi stop

but feels the water slosh half-way up his trouser leg.

He gropes the handle, pours himself onto the seat,

shakes his hat outside before he slams the door.

“Airport please. And hurry!” The driver’s walnut shell

face crinkles in the rear-view mirror. “This storm will

down all planes.” He knocks his ash into the tray.

“Nothing in. Nothing out.” He inches to the middle

of the street, empty of all traffic, changing now

from stream to torrent. “I know a pub nearby. You can

dry out by the fire while we tip a pint of beer.”